


Call Me, Maybe?

by thesquaredcircle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, F/F, F/M, M/M, Out of Character, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesquaredcircle/pseuds/thesquaredcircle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is a young, lonely professor, who gets dragged into a male strip club by his three beautiful TAs.</p><p>Troubles ensued. Probably.</p><p>(I really don't know how to summarise this one...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me, Maybe?

**Author's Note:**

> First thing first, it is my first whole English fiction, and English is not my first language, so please don't hate! But I appreciate any comment that points out any grammar mistake I made.
> 
> Secondly, my first post on AO3! I wasn't planned to post the English version of this work at all, until one reader who read the Chinese version (which [straysoul](http://archiveofourown.org/users/straysoul/pseuds/straysoul) helped me to post [somewhere](http://www.movietvslash.com/thread-160650-1-1.html) else) was curious and left the comment.
> 
> Lastly, it serves as a birthday present for myself, so be mindful about the OOC.
> 
> Special thanks to [straysoul](http://archiveofourown.org/users/straysoul/pseuds/straysoul), who was there along the whole writing process.
> 
> *I never been in a strip club before, nor a bar, and do not have complete understanding on how governing system in colleges worked, so all the mistakes are mine*  
> *I do not own any of the characters, the costumes and the music mentioned in the fic*

 

 

 

 

"Are you sure this is really necessary?" the ginger male eyed his reflection in the mirror with distaste, and arched a perfect eyebrow at the brunette with long hair who was unfortunately  his roommate and also TA that stood beside and a little behind him.

Anthea just rolled her eyes patiently, "of course it is necessary, Myc, don't be stupid. Mary and I bought these clothes last year is for you to wear, not for wardrobe decoration."

"I just didn't see the occasion to wear... this kind of clothes," Mycroft looked down at the pair of super skinny jeans that was more like his second skin and the gray button-down tucked under the jeans that hugged his slim upper body like the fabric actual live there his entire life. He didn't even bother to ask how they knew his size. "It is not like I can wear them to work or attend meetings or something, I doubt the respect I have from my students, peers and academic authority would still be there if I wore them to lectures. And just so you know, I am not stupid." He crossed his arms around his chest and sulked.

"Yeah, yeah, became a professor at 19 definitely proved the point, you are just stubborn and painfully oblivious." Anthea raised her hand to pinch Mycroft's cheek without lifting her head from her BlackBerry, "and I think they will still admire you if you wore them to school, just..." she eyes his back from the broad shoulder to the slim waist and the long legs then fixed her gaze on his firm buttocks, smile wickedly, "in another way?"

"ANTHEA!" Mycroft blushed furiously.

"Sorry I am not sorry." Anthea raised both hands into a 'no offense' posture, but threw a wink at him, "anyway, it's almost time to go, I should go and change myself. Mary and Harry will meet us outside of the club, and no, you have to wear these clothes and I have to make sure that you are going to be there on time."

She warned before she left the room, "don't even dream that you can get out of this, honey, you know that won't work. Oh, and wear that pair of boat shoes Harry gave you last year. Okay, the brown leather shoes look somehow like sneakers... oh Lord, you are pathetic!"

She glared at him fondly, pulled a shoe box out of his wardrobe and dumped on his bed, then walked out the door.

Mycroft didn't even want to know how she knew where he keep his stuffs. He lived with this scary lady for 5 years to know not to question. Women just had a magical sixth sense, period. This was the only explanation he had for why his three beautiful TAs just came crash into his life and started to dominate it, even though he was supposed to be the one in charge. He IS the professor, damn it!

Signed defeated, Mycroft put on the shoes, with small hint of reluctance. It was not like he had other choices. He used to think that after years of working with people who were older yet less wiser than him, he knew how to deal with ladies who are older but worked under him. But apparently, he seemed to attract the motherly type of girls to be friend with, who liked to treat him as a little child and _**obsessed**_ to interfere his private life.

Yes, the word 'obsess' definitely worth be italic and bolded.

He didn't even want to know where they were taking him.

So he didn't ask.

 

And he really should have known better. Even though knowing where they were going did not increased his chance to get out of the scam they planned, but at least he could pretend he actually resisted.

His gaze shifted between the neon signs and the lady with short dirty blond hair with gaping mouth, "a male strip club?"

"Yup!" Harry replied at the same time when Mary mocked him with "Stop imitating gold fish, sweetheart, I know you despise them." When Mycroft was still staring at her with disbelief, Harry waved her hands impatiently, "Oh, come on, Myc, live a little, you are old enough to drink and enjoy some nudity, even in the States!"

"That doesn't mean I have to!" He looked at her in pure horror, played with his sleeves nervously, "Oh my sweet lord, what are you thinking?"

Mary shrugged, "Well, since you broke up with that Jimmy guy, you didn't go out much, spend all your time on researching, writing and other worked-related things, let along dating someone else, and that was, like, when you were 18? So we just hope that you can at least, loosen up a little tonight?"

Oh. Mycroft gazed down at the floor and worried his bottom lip. Now he felt very guilty to snapped his friends right there. He laced his fingers together and squeezed hard, "Sorry, I don't know..."

"Nah, it's okay, Mary is just trying to guilt trip you. Again. You really should have learnt, Myc." Anthea shook her head sympathetically, "but, seriously, you do need to loosen up a bit, you have been too harsh to yourself since that weirdo went back to his ex, and we really are worrying that you might have meltdowns one day."

"Fine," Mycroft signed, he knew it was a losing battle anyway, "but just for the record, I did resist before I surrendered."

"Whatever you say, sugar," Harry just laughed insouciantly.

With Harry grabbed one of his arms and Mary the other, Mycroft was practically dragged into the club with a smiling Anthea in tow.

Harry paid the doormen, told the clerk her name with a flirting grin, then someone led them to a booth that was right in front of the stage. There was a small round wooden table with the wine-coloured leather sofa surrounded it, few same coloured cushions scattered around them. They settled down, with Harry and Mycroft on the two end of the sofa and Mary and Anthea in between. The show hadn't started yet, but the house was already full.

Full of females.

Mycroft looked around curiously, and found out that he was the only male in the club, except the performers and the other working staffs. All of the ladies tonight seemed to be excited, chatting and laughing with drinks in hands. Even Harry who was not interested in men in her entire life was looking forward for the show, which was weird, he must have missed the memo. He stared down at the wooden table, it was small but firm and steady. He felt so out of place.

The waiter (who wore only black apron, white cuffs and white collar with black bow-tie and nothing else*, Mycroft had a hard time to stare straight and not let his eyes wandered) who brought their drinks had a sweet, dorky smile that didn’t really fit into the circumstance, but he was looking at Anthea, so Mycroft understood. Harry let out a whistle when he turned around to serve another table.

“What?” she shrugged innocently when the other three arched their brow at her, “I can appreciate some nice arses, and he does have one.”

The chattering died down when the lights turned dark, the spotlight shed on the dark red curtain that blocked the stage. A woman in trench coat appeared on the stage, wore a pair of red stilettos with heels so high Mycroft was sure she could kill people by stepping. Her red lipstick made her smile so dangerous, yet so lethally attractive.

“Ladies,” she said when everyone quiet down, surveying the room, “and gentlemen, of course, welcome to the Yard. For the regulars who are confused and disappointed to see me here, don’t worry, the official manager…”

“Hey, hey!” a man in business suit interrupted her as he entered the stage, “who are you? What are you doing here? You are not supposed to be here!”

The man followed her when she tried to leave the stage, cornered her, and grabbed her coat sleeve when she tried to run.

“Let go of me!” the woman yelled, struggle to free her hand. The belt of the trench coat loosen up during the fight, and with her last resort she finally free herself. Yet not entirely successful, as her coat sleeve was still in the man’s hand.

“What the HELL?” she squealed, her toned body exposed to the whole room. The red lingerie* really suits her tan skin, Mycroft thought as he watched in wonder and fascination, even though he knew he probably shouldn’t stare.

Harry looked way too excited that Mycroft was worried he should grabbed her before she jumped on that woman.

The man looked guilty and half-panicking, squeezed the trench coat nervously, “oh my god, I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to…”

“No.” The woman put a finger on his chest and poked hard, her face was pure anger, “I don’t accept your apology. And this,” she grabbed his pants, “is the payback.”

And she pulled.

The pants peeled off way too easily for an actual pair of dress pants, and the red jockstrap* that constructed fundamentally by strings was definitely the giveaway.

The crowd started to cheer, some whistled, when the music began to play and the man shook his pretty arse.

It was a nice arse, indeed. Not that Mycroft was looking.

Each layer of clothes was peeled off one by one and scattered around the floor, some pieces landed on ladies' face. The man shook and wiggled his body along the beat of the music, making some very filthy moves every now and then. The lyrics of the songs were just down right dirty, kept assaulting Mycroft’s ears even though he tried his very best not to pay attention. Mycorft felt the blush was creeping on his cheeks while other ladies near the stage were waving their money and stuffed them into the man’s underwear that only covered his organ and nothing else.

When Mycroft could let himself relax a bit and laid back to the sofa instead of sitting up so straight, he found that the performances were actually quite nice. And people didn’t seem to give a damn about he was the only guy audience tonight. To be honest, the female customers hardly scattered him a glance as they were too busy to worship those bodies on the stage, all smooth skin, hard muscles and cheeky smile.

He spared glance toward his followed friends, then wondered what had he done in his past life that he got this kind of friends. Harry looked bored, and started to flirt with a group of college students next table, quipped with some sexual jokes that made them laugh and blush at the same time. Instead of enjoying the show, Mary looked like she was studying it, calculating the angle, the force and friction of each movement. Anthea seemed to be more interested in her phone than the performance… wait, is that the dorky waiter’s phone number?

Mycroft downed his drink in one go and waved at a waiter near the table to get another. Not that waiter, fortunately.

Mycroft didn’t know a thing about strip clubs, but it seemed to him that they were having some role play party tonight. So far they had some group numbers from a group of bikers with leather jacket and motorcycle boots, some sailor boys in white uniform shirt, blue neckerchief and white dress shorts and a group of firefighters who didn’t actually extinguish the flame, and some solo dance from a cowboy, a librarian (oh god, how was he going to interact with school librarians without blushing after this), some high school jocks and a boy scout (seriously?!).

Some of the dancers liked to interact with audiences, dragged them to the stage and did some naughty things to them. And some just loved to tease the customers with the hand free attitude yet used their every move to tempt them to touch.

Mycroft was watching a very curvy lady being disciplined by a teacher (yeah, sure) on the stage when someone tapped his shoulder. He startled, turned his head so fast that he heard his neck cracked. A police officer stood there, face serious and looked unimpressed with his arms crossed around his chest, showing off his bulging biceps. An pair of aviator sunglasses covered his face, which, to Mycroft’s opinion, was very pretentious in most of the circumstances, but now it only made him even more nervous.

“Sorry, sir,” the officer said calmly if not coldly, tipped his hat, “but we have reason to believe that you may carry some object that is inappropriate in this occasion. A pat-down is required. Please stand up.”

Mycroft looked at him dumbfounded, not sure what to do. He looked toward his friends and around the room nervously, but they, the teacher on stage included, seemed to be confused too.

Seeing that Mycroft was too shock to move, the officer tugged him up by arms and span him around until his back was to him. "Hold still," placed Mycroft's hand on the back of the sofa and squeezed firmly, he whispered beside his ear, the warm breath made Mycroft shivered. The voice was low and husky, tone harsh but sound warm, an entity of contradiction that made it difficult to think straight.

Yeah, because there's nothing straight about this. His mind supplied sarcastically.

The big hands ran through Mycroft's body methodically: slipped from his shoulder blade then two arms, slid down the chest through the armpits, two sides of the waist, touched the outer thighs, inner thigh, then…

One hand was cupping the budge between his legs that had nowhere to hide thanks to the jeans he's wearing, the other squeezed his butt cheek while the warm body was practically plastered against him from behind. He could felt the warm through the thin layers of clothes, the thought along was enough to make his mouth dry.

"Ah, see what I have found here," the officer rubbed between his legs lightly while his hips grinded his butt, voice low enough to sound like a intimate whisper, but loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, "I am sorry, sir, but this," he emphasized 'this' with a firm squeeze, "is not permitted here. The standard procedure has to be pursued, and," he actually whispered this time while his hips rubbed between his cheeks, "I think you deserve some punishment."

Then the uniform man yanked both of his arms back and held his wrists together in a firm grip.

Mycroft still hadn't found his ability to think back when the officer began to drag him to the stage, all he could to do was looked at his friends helplessly, in hope that they would do something.

And, Mycroft really questioned his taste of friends. Harry looked way too smug for his own safety. And Mary seemed amused by the situation. Mycroft decided to save effort on reading Anthea's facial expression for the purpose to maintain his mental health. He should have known, anyway.

The officer pushed him on to a chair that came out of nowhere and cuffed one of his hands on the back of the chair.

Thanks to the dim light in the room, despite knowing that the man was wearing uniform (therefore the ‘officer’) and  had very nice biceps, Mycroft didn't have a chance to have actual look of him. He was glad that at least he was sitting when he got the full view, or else he was going to embarrass himself by falling on the ground. He didn't even notice that the previous private detention had ended.

He must compliment the hard work they spent on the costumes, regardless how absurd the role was, they at least got all the details right, both fully clothed or undressed. The man was wearing a black short-sleeved shirt and a match long dress pants, with a black leather hat and a duty belt on, the baton hitched on the belt and he got a (fake) badge on his neck. Now Mycroft knew why he was wearing a sunglasses indoor in the middle of the night because the spotlight was freaking bright that he couldn’t see anything out of the stage, and he didn’t know if he wished he had a pair now as well, or be glad that he at least had a reason to explain why he was staring.

If Mycroft was honest to himself, which he rarely did, he would admit that neither the uniform details nor the light was the main reason why he was staring.

The man in the cop uniform had short dark brown hair that tucked right under the hat, a wicked smirk on the corner of his nice thin lips. Mycroft was not sure if it was the light or he actually had some fading on edge. As far as he could tell, the man was pretty tan, not in an artificial sense, but a tan that formed under the real sun. Unlike the other performers, all puffed up with muscles hard like stone, this man was lean and firm, body toned but not overworked. Based on how the shirt hugged him and the pervious experience of him plastered against his back, Mycroft knew that the chest and the abdomen beneath that thin fabric were very much well defined. He wondered if this guy played any sport. And he wondered what those muscles he had felt before would actually look like. This thought made his blush deepened.

The officer smirked knowingly.

He lowered his sunglasses and met his with the darkest brown eyes Mycroft had ever seen.

He lifted his one leather boot cladded foot on seat cushion between Mycroft’s legs, right in front of his crotch, “like what you see?”

Mycroft swallowed, and had an urge to hide the tent formed in his jeans with his free hand. But he knew that would only make this even more embarrassing, if the whole situation itself was not humiliating enough. He just nodded, as he couldn’t trust his voice right now.

The curve of his lips grew larger, the officer tossed the sunglasses away to reveal his full face. Mycroft’s heart stopped and he suddenly had some difficulty to breath. Despite the fact that he was surrounded by adults most of the time in his entire life, he didn’t have much experience of interacting with people outside the academic and professional environment; and most of male adults were a lot older than him, so he didn’t really know the standard beauty of men this day. But this man, he was the most beautiful man Mycroft had ever seen, even though he just saw more attractive men in the 2 or 3 hours they spent in the club than in his past 21 years.

He was just…beautiful.

Mycoft hated the fact that he was reduced to the level that words were actually abandoned him. No one ever had this kind of effect on him, not even Jimmy, who was also beautiful on his own right.

The officer lower his upper body and came face to face with Mycroft, “then I bet you are going to love what comes next.”

Mycroft ducked his face with embarrassment, breaking the eye contact.

Oh gosh, he has nice breath. Mycroft thought, then scolded himself, stop being a creeper!

The officer used the baton to lift his face, looked at him straight in eyes, “don't ever take your eyes off me, understand?” Mycroft lowered his eyes but nodded. Then the officer lowered the baton down, from his chin to the chest via the neck and shoulders while his foot nudged his crotch, made Mycroft couldn’t help but moaned. He had to bite his lips to quiet himself.

The movement stilled abruptly.

Mycroft looked up in both confusion and curiosity.

The man’s gaze was fixing on his lips, the grip on the baton seemed to tighten, the smug smile disappeared, his expression unreadable. Under the bright spotlight and due to the close distance between them, Mycroft thought he saw the man’s eyes turned even darker. But that must be an illusion, because his mind had gone offline since the first time the man’s put his hands on him at their table.

The officer shifted his eyes and met with Mycroft's, both of them ducked their eye contact. The baton started moving again, almost absentmindedly. When Mycroft remembered the officer’s order and looked up once again, the smirk was back into place.

The man tossed the baton away like he did to the sunglasses, sat on Mycroft’s lap and grind his crotch when the music* began to play. Mycroft threw a quick glare at the general direction of his friends when he caught the lyrics. He knew it was impossible to murder three of them successfully, but he would at least try.

All of the ideas of murdering his TAs went out of the window when the officer took off his shirt. Mycroft didn’t know he was able to plan an assassination while some hot guy basically dry humping him through layers of clothes in front of a hundred women before tonight. But at this moment, he couldn’t focus on anything but the man on his laps. His free hand gripped on the base of the chair hard, as if this could help him grounded himself.

The chest and the abdomen were just like what Mycroft had expected, if not better. He could see how the muscle stretched and pulled when he twisted his waist and wiggled his hips, a thin layer of sweat formed on his skin under the heat of the spotlight and made him literally shine.

Everything else faded into background and turned into white noise. Nothing mattered right fucking now.

Sensing how tense Mycroft was, the officer grabbed his hand and pulled it away from the seat base, then put it on his body instead, encouraging him to touch. Mycroft whimpered when the skin touch the skin, the firm muscles beneath his hand made him shivered at the strengths they withheld and things they could do to him. If it was not a show, if they were not on a stage, if this was not a set up but something real… Mycroft closed his eyes for brief movement to still his thought from going too far. Enjoying some actions and eye candies was one thing, getting attached to someone you just met and barely knew was another. Mycroft might be inexperienced, but he was not naive enough to be hopeful.

The man lifted himself up a little bit, just enough of space for him to grab one of Mycroft’s leg and raised it onto his shoulder, liked he was the one with problem of letting go. He grinded his hips even harder, now between Mycroft’s two long legs, made their crotch in contacted directly. Well, not entirely direct, since there were still some fabrics between them, but their crotch were plastered against each other instead of other parts of their body. And, much to Mycroft’s amaze, the man was hard, like, rocking hard. He wondered if getting hard was part of the job as well, as not to offend their customers like they were not attractive enough to make them aroused.

The officer pushed the chair back slowly on the ground, body came along the way, practically straddled him. After a moment of panicking due to the sudden movement, Mycroft looked up in wonder, only then he discovered that he was neither looking at the man’s face, nor the ceiling of the stage, but the man’s crotch. And he was really, really hard. He opened his mouth, wanted to question, then immediately snapped shut when the said crotch lowered itself and almost  landed on his face.

… Should I breath?

Mycroft stared at the officer’s crotch (because he had no other option, of course) in wonder.

Then the hips started to imitate the movement of intercourse and was basically humping his face. His cuffed hand squeezed the seat base while the free hand grabbed the man’s calf. The act seemed to encourage the officer even more, as he switched to different paces every now and then. He could smell the arousal of the other guy, pouring into his face like tidal waves, he could felt his body temperature increased even more in response. The musky odour bathed his face, along with the smell of cotton fabric and tight leather. Tight leather? Mycroft was pretty sure that the hat and the belt were made of polyurethane.

Mycroft got his answer when the man stood up, straightened the chair and Mycroft to face the audiences, then pulled off his dress pants.

An internal voice was screaming at him.

ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIDDING. ME?!!!

Mycroft really wanted to die now. Both embarrassment and arousal were clotting his brain, he was positive that he was going to be brain dead due to lack of oxygen. Even if that didn’t happen, there was a high possibility that he was going to have a heart attack at any second, based on how fast his heart accelerated within 3 seconds, like his heart was an engine of some fast cars. And he didn’t even mind if he had to die tonight. He knew that no moment in the rest of his life was able to top this one.

And this was just pathetic that he really wanted to cry.

The man was wearing a leather jockstraps that constructed by strips and strings*. And nothing else. Except his hat, fake badge, duty belt and leather boots. So he basically had nothing but that jockstraps covered the center parts of his body. And with his back to Mycroft, so he could have the view of his nice back muscles, strong thighs and the perfect curve line of the firm arse. The leather strips hugged him in all the right way, and the leather cross that happened to cover his hole was too much. Mycroft didn’t need the view, he wished he didn’t know what the man looked like underneath those clothes so he didn’t have to miss it in the rest of of his life. He just ruined every man for Mycroft. He wondered if it was too late to turn straight now. It was not like he hadn’t spent the first three years of his teenage year to try to do just that.

He wished he was not here tonight. He wished he was at home, along, spent the day like every other one. He wished he was in his bed with comforter around him like a safe cocoon, so being sad and self-pity wouldn’t be so hard to do. He wished he could tear his eyes away instead of take the whole view like a thirsty man, so he didn’t have to force himself to forget right after that.

With a blink of his eyes, the man was sitting on his laps again, twerking, back plastered against Mycroft's chest, and took his free hand to touch the leather covered bulge between his thighs. Mycroft whimpered quietly.

Then the music came to the end, and the man reluctantly pulled away, and uncuffed Mycroft.

Much to his surprise, the audiences were actually enjoying the show. Like, a lot. Maybe too much was more precise. If the performance did not make him breathless already and hard to focus on anything but the remnants of the sensation and his internal conflict, he might just faint because of all the cheers and shout and whistles.

"Happy birthday, honey bun," the man whispered right beside his ears when he lead him back to his seat, "hope you have a good one."

He squeezed his bum playfully.

Mycroft could only stare at the back of the man retreating to the backstage with wide eyes, gasped.

"What just happened? You ladies planned this?" Mycroft asked incredulously when his heart beat finally slow down a bit for him to breath easily. Then he realised there was a young African ancestry lady wearing leather shorts with fishnet stockings and above knee boots with 6 inch heels, and very tight black short-sleeved shirt that was exposing her tight abs, and she was sitting…on Harry's laps. She was actually the same lady who began the show. "Err, hello?"

"Oh, sorry I forget to introduce you two!" Harry smiled, "Sally, this is my friend and boss in school, Mycroft," she told the woman on her laps, "and Mycroft, this is Sally, my ex fuck buddy, and the manager of the 'Yard'!"

"Temporal manager, actually," Sally corrected with a laugh, "you know, I don't actually work here, I dance at the female strip club right across the street. It is just that, the manager here got a phone call few weeks ago and took a immediate leave to take care of some… private business," she eyed at the backstage knowingly, "and so he asked me to fulfill his ‘position’ during his 'absence'."

"That's the reason why I didn't see you last time I visit 'New Scot'?" Harry said with fake hurt, "and you didn't even tell me!"

Sally shrugged, “I don’t know you visited, and you didn’t tell me you were coming either.”

“May I ask something?” as a well educated young lady with manner, Mary actually raised her hand. The duo nodded, then she asked, “why are you girls broke off your arrangement?”

The duo glanced at each other before Harry answered, “she missed cocks.”

"Oh my god," he murmured, buried his face in his palm and waved at the waiter with his free hand, "I need more than just one gin martini to cope this."

 

After the trip to the club, four of them went to another bar that had lady's night that day. The girls got free drinks and took turns to treat Mycroft, just so they could finally see what Mycroft would look like when he was drunk. They didn't succeed, if it was Mycroft who dragged them home was any indication. When all of them finally got home, it was already 2 a.m. of the next day.

Or more precisely, Harry was so drunk that she could barely hold herself up, much less to stand and walk, so Anthea and Mycroft decided to let her crash their couch. She was so, so drunk that she started to make out with random girls across her path, and they had to stop her before she did anything she might regret and needed a explanation for her girlfriend later. And it was too late for Mary to go home, and since she was sober enough, she could sleep with Anthea. One could barely tell if Mary was drunk or not, the only sign was her frequency of giggling increased. Anthea didn't get drunk. She just didn't, don't ask why.

He was glad that it was Saturday the next day.

After everyone was settled down, with which Harry was passed out on the couch, Anthea helped Mary changing into the spare pajamas she lent her, and Mycroft put a cup of water and two pills of painkiller beside each one of them, Mycroft finally went back to his room to change. He unbuttoned the shirt, sniffed it before threw it to the laundry basket. He spent some time just to peel off the jeans from his legs, it made him feel like he was de-skinning himself. As he put away the jeans, a piece of paper fell out from his back pocket.

He picked up the paper from the floor, confused.

There was a string of numbers on the paper, along with three simple words written by a messy handwriting.

There was no name on it.

But he just knew where it came from.

There was only one person who actually touched his back side tonight.

He stared at the note quietly, stomach clinched with a mixed feeling of hope and pure fear. What was written on the note was just too simple to be real. Half of him just wanted to shake all the girls awake so he could question them if they planned this as well. The remaining of him just so damned wanted it to be true. But even if it was real, he didn't know what to do with it either. It was not like he could jump on Anthea's mattress to pull her back to sober, so she could tell him what to do. First of all, she would just kill him. And if she was mercy enough to keep him alive so she wouldn't lose her job, she would just laugh at him and call him pathetic.

So he did the only thing he thought was appropriate in this situation. He burnt it. (Nah, he didn’t, but he kind of wanted to.)

He entered the numbers into his phone, and pressed the call button.

And he waited.

**Author's Note:**

> some images and background music I based upon when writing the fic:  
> *[the waiter's costume](http://www.buffnakedbutlers.co.uk/Buff-Naked-butlers-photo.jpg)  
> *[red lingerie](http://images.fineartamerica.com/images-medium-large-5/red-lingerie-yulia-litvinova.jpg)  
> *[red jockstrap](http://fl22.shopmania.org/files/p/us/m/548/candyman-crisscross-straps-bare-jock-thong-jock-strap-underwear-red~223412548.jpg)  
> *the music for the performance: [Birthday Sex](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vYMxOzxKYYo) by Jeremih  
> *[leather jockstrap](http://www.deadgoodundies.com/apparel/gregg-homme-teesers-jock.html)
> 
> I don't own any of these images and music, I just used them to create a proper setting.


End file.
